


tonight, and tomorrow, and still many more

by vegetas



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Post Carnivale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 22:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/pseuds/vegetas
Summary: three word prompt "just a taste"





	tonight, and tomorrow, and still many more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> “I’m walking out now into the soft light,  
>  the cooling hum of evening,  
>  and I will love you tonight,  
>  and tomorrow, and still many more,  
>  so very many tomorrows.”
> 
> nabakov

 

“ _ Not _ now Mr. Gibson,” Edward says harshly, as the door to his berth slides open and a shadow falls upon the wall. His grip tightens on the back of his chair where he has been leaning, immovable, for some time. “Go look after Hodgson - I wish to be alone,” he continues biting around the words. 

  
“Billy is helping with the wounded.”

 

Edward turns over his shoulder, staring at Thomas where he waits, the bowl in his hand and the towel draped over his arm. His face is ashen, and all eyes, but his hoarse voice is steady. He swallows. 

  
“I’ve brought water for you, Sir,” he says. “And to assist you with undressing in his stead.”

 

“You neglect the Captain?” Edward asks, shoulders sagging as he breathes it out, and Thomas steps in and shuts the door quietly, latching it. 

  
“I’m following orders, it’s no worry,” he soothes, coming to Edward’s side, placing the basin down on the stand and laying the towel down beside it. He sets about gathering the few effects Edward has piled about - books and papers, his diaries. He stacks them and puts them aside on the narrow shelf above Edward’s folded-down desk and brings the lamp closer, giving himself more room and more light, moving as though the space belongs to him.

 

“Come now,” he directs, rolling his cuffs up, and Edward stands dumbly, watching him. “You’ll feel better.” He takes his arm and Edward stiffens, jerking back. His lashes flutter and his throat bobs hard. 

 

“I wish to be alone,” he manages, roughly and Thomas tilts his head taking a closer look at his face, and his palm travels up his arm and smudges at a bit of soot on his cheek, stroking it. “I - I am trying to compose myself,” the words die on Edward’s tongue and he brings the palm of his hand to his forehead, hacking a cough to mask his sob as his shoulders bow. 

 

“Let’s begin with your coat,” Thomas says softly,  moving to undo the buttons. Edward can do little more than shake, quaking so hard he would think all his clothes would simply fall into a pile around his legs. Thomas eases his arms from his sleeves, first one, then the other, and hangs the coat neatly on its peg. 

 

“It will be better if we get you down to your small clothes,” Thomas says, and Edward nods, mute, letting Thomas take off his jacket and the blue knit sweater he had opted for in lieu of his more formal waistcoat-  an absolutely ludicrous decision in hindsight. When he loosens Edward’s necktie and collar it is all Edward can do to keep from gasping at the air.

 

His lungs are still burning from the smoke, and he is certain Thomas’ must be as well. Thomas hides his discomfort, but his breathing is shallow and labored, and his face is pale, eyes bloodshot and the delicate skin around them red and irritated. 

 

Edward’s tears are a slow, dribbling leak, as he shrugs out of his suspenders, and Thomas ignores them because his soul is the most generous Edward has ever seen. He blinds himself to the follies of men who are meant to be better than him, and rescues their pride as if it were his own, time and time again.

 

Edward stands there, shivering not from the cold, stripped of even his shirt sleeves and wearing only his long thermal, and Thomas touches his side as he untucks it from where his trousers now hang slightly from his hips. With a slight nod, he takes Edward’s elbow and tugs him into place before the basin, guiding him with a hand on the back of his neck. He’s undone the two small buttons on his undershirt collar so that it hangs open as he leans over, and Edward automatically finds the carved edges of the stand to hold.  

 

Thomas gently brings the water to his face in the cup of his hand, wiping the spill before it can run too far past his whiskers. A few drops still get away, slipping down his collarbone and disappearing in the hair thatching his chest. The water - little more than ice melt - makes him suck a hiss through his teeth, but isn’t unwelcome. He remembers scorching heat at every turn, and the water meeting his skin dulls the phantom sensation. 

 

“Shh, calm down,” he hears Thomas coax.“You must not breathe like that, or you’ll make yourself ill.”

 

He realizes he’s panting hard, shuddering as Thomas presses against each side of his face and his forehead and finger combs through the front of his hair. Without Thomas there he would plunge his entire face in, and the urge is overwhelming. He watches the water darken with soot and grit, turning a murky gray. There is no reflection, no oracle to witness, just the lamp-light throwing shadows on it. 

 

The grief is in the marrow of him now and cannot be gnawed free except by bared fangs - something would have to strip away every tendon, and lick and worry at his bones. 

 

“How do you brave it, Thomas,” Edward asks, desperately. A fleeting vision overtakes him of simply walking into the dark, the maw of snaggle-toothed pressure ridges and berg, and leting it have its way. “This suffering… in every corner.”

 

He closes his eyes, a few more tears squeezing between his lashes, exhaling. He sees singed coils of rope being reeled in like so much dirty entrail and smoldering pyramids of rubble and the charred men laid out in their neat row like firewood on the ice. They’re so alien his brain balks at calling them human for their disfigurement. 

 

“Hm,” Thomas hums, distant. Perhaps there are other thoughts in his head, too. Ones that he cannot share, even with Edward.   

 

“My younger brother, Robert,” he says, finally, toweling Edward’s damp face dry before dipping the cloth in, and wringing it out. Edward obediently stays bent over, listening to him over the sound of his own ragged breathing,  his knuckles white on the sides of the stand as he attempts to slow it. He feels Thomas move aside his hair so he can fold the cloth over the back of his neck. Edward has to grit his teeth at the relief of it, the cold water running down his back and streaming down the sides of his neck, and Thomas’ hand pressing it in place an axis that he feels he hinges on.

 

“Your brother,” Edward prompts, starving for an answer. 

 

“My brother, yes,” he continues, catching himself, his voice falling to a loving whisper. “He was given to dramatics.”

 

“He would work himself up,” he re-wets the cloth, and replaces it, and Edward feels his heart nearly pounding out of his chest as he does so, drops slip down his clean face along his jaw and fall into the basin with  _ plops _ . 

 

“Sometimes needlessly, over silly things, the way children do…another boy said a mean word, or he was frightened. My mother had terrible nerves herself, and once she got going he was sure to follow...” 

 

Thomas huffs an exasperated laugh, shaking his head. 

 

“I’d stand him just like this and have him wash his face,” Thomas continues. “And his neck. Behind his ears,” Edward can hear the smile in his voice and his hand not holding the cloth tickles along the curve behind Edward’s ear, righting a few strands of hair. “ _ You’ve a new face now, Bobby _ , I’d tell him.  _ That old trouble won’t recognize you, see _ ?”

 

“I think I taught him more foolishness than hardihood...trouble doesn’t pass anyone over,” Thomas mutters, stroking the back of Edward’s head, blunt nails scratching at his skull. Edward has stopped hyperventilating, hypnotized by Thomas’ hand and the slow drag of his fingers.

 

“I’ve known a few troubles, Edward my love,” Thomas says, the words creaking tiredly in his throat. His hand stills, and a pause follows on its heels, both of them reverberating with the slip of his tongue around the endearment. “Made myself a good living out of putting on a fresh face, I suppose,” he finishes, clearing his throat again and taking the cloth away from the back of Edward’s neck to fold it and flop it next to the basin. 

 

“I almost forgot,” he says, a bit louder, and there’s a rustle. Edward lifts his head blearily to see Thomas is fishing in his pocket now. His face is blank save for a dust of pink from the cold, or his blush. When he catches Edward’s eye he smiles a little weakly, obviously embarrassed with himself.    
  
“A sweet never hurts,” he whispers, pulling the square of chocolate out and holding it up between them. He unwraps the delicate foil and breaks it in two, taking half for himself. Edward’s stomach sours over the idea, and it must show. 

  
“Just a taste,” Thomas says, insisting. 

 

Edward takes it and nibbles cautiously, to please him. A bite or two in he feels the tightness of his chest relent, the chocolate painting over the bitterness in his dry mouth, and he welcomes it, however temporary. 

 

“Does he look like you?” 

 

“Bobby?” Thomas lifts his head, sucking the last bit of chocolate from his thumb. He blinks with heavy lashes and leans against the wall of Edward’s berth, shrugging. “He did - or, he looked at me at his age. Lord, I have not thought of Bobby in months… he was barely more than a boy when I left.”

 

“Are his eyes like yours?” Edward presses. “That rare color.” 

 

“Yes, his eyes are like mine I would say. They’re my mum’s. My father's were very dark blue.” 

 

Thomas taps his fingers on his arm where he’s crossed them on his chest. He searches Edward’s face for something, hugging himself a bit harder. 

 

“How was it?” Thomas asks, blinking a few times. He is filling the silence, Edward knows. Volleying the conversation on, as good gentlemen do. The faint rasp of his voice is the only tell of what’s brimming underneath all the courtesy, and kind words. 

 

“How was what?” Edward replies, not breaking their eyes apart. Thomas frowns slightly, looking instead at the wrapper still in his hand, folding it into a neat little rectangle that he pushes into his pocket.    
  
“The sun,” he murmurs. “I did not get to see much of it,” he continues, scratching a bit at his cheek where his stubble is beginning to shadow his jaw. “I should have liked to see you in that daylight.” 

 

Edward watches those lovely, rare, eyes take on an opalescent sheen, two tears in quick succession rolling down his face fast as two falling stars. He sighs heavily, tucking that ever-errant strand of hair into place.

 

“Would you believe I was looking forward to seeing my handsome Edward Little’s face in the sun. All week,” he trails, running the whole of his hand over the top of his head and patting it down, looking at nothing at all now. 

 

It’s a preposterous thing to say, and Edward’s instincts say _no, I would not believe_ _it_ , for what a waste of wishes so mild and sweet in all the madness to be spent on him. 

 

Thomas ceases his nervous petting but his eyes stay firmly on the vacant spot he’s chosen somewhere on the floor. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says barely above a whisper. “It’s very selfish. I made Billy stay, so I could come here.” He wipes his face with the heel of his hand, sniffing. Three more tears blink down his cheeks and his mouth quivers. 

 

It’s unfolding like a map, or falling open as the spine of a book to its most frequented page, that they are in love with one another. It took root in easier times, robed in the allure that comes only with being new and warm and alive under him. It could have passed overhead like a comet, striking Edward blind for a flash with passions that would then dim and leave him waiting and watching for the next go-round. 

 

But that is nowhere near the truth, and he needs no telescope to see. 

 

There is no other thing that would give him the strength to put a gentle hand on his fear’s brutal back and beg it to be tame, for just a moment. 

 

“The sun was lovely,” Edward says. It’s a half lie; it was lovely, and depraved - awing in its most unforgiving beauty. “I’ll find a way to square the time and we shall have a look tomorrow.” 

 

“Please,” is all Thomas says, politely. 

 

Thomas makes no sound when Edward kisses him, Edward’s hands tilting his head so that he can slot them together fully. Thomas does not kiss back, so much as lean against him, his eyes closed and following Edward’s mouth for more when he draws away. 

 

He breathes hard, but doesn’t cry out, and his shaking hands light on Edward’s sides.

 

_ How do you brave it, Thomas? _

  
“Would you like another piece of chocolate, my love?” Edward hushes, close enough to see that Thomas is still winsome and twenty-nine, despite all this unspeakable horror. He is still so young, and precious. “I have one or two tucked away.”

 

Thomas hesitates, then nods. Edward brushes away his tears, smiling softly, though Thomas does not see it. Before he can part from him Thomas winds his arms around his back, and lays his cheek on his shoulder so he can hide his face in Edward’s neck.

**Author's Note:**

> i had to do my own "ed little post-carnivale breakdown" sometime - it is my rite. these kids have it ROUGH as always, but they're in love so it's marginally better. 
> 
> unbeta'd as usual i live & die by my own sword !!!!


End file.
